The First Kiss
by ClickForCharley
Summary: Rachel and Quinn's first kiss. One shot. Silly. Quinn's POV.


**A/N: This is just a quick one shot to get me out of my writer's block funk while I work on my multi-chapter Faberry fic. This is supposed to be silly and try to capture the ridiculousness that is Rachel and Quinn's relationship. All mistakes are mine. Reviews are appreciated :).**

Her eyes are big enough to swallow me whole. I would be completely enamored by them if I wasn't currently terrified.

"What?" I fake nonchalance.

I had heard her the first time. I'm hoping the avoidance tactic will scare her into not repeating herself.

She huffs and crosses her arms with a pout. Her adorable bottom lip is _not_ helping my aloof facade.

"I _said_," she emphasizes, "is it true that you slept with Santana after Mr. Shue's wedding?"

Shit.

I frown and tilt my head to the side, never breaking eye contact, hoping that this will detour her from pushing further. She usually cowers under my stare.

She's holding firm.

"Well?" she pushes with a head tilt of her own.

Time for the kill.

"Why are you asking this, Rachel?" I bite out the last syllable of her name and arch my eyebrow.

Her eyes fall. Victory is mine. I almost smile to myself before her head snaps back up.

"Because we're _kind of_ friends, Quinn, and, therefore, I _kind of_ deserve to know."

I realize that I'm not going to win this one. If the eyebrow doesn't work, nothing will.

I throw up my hands in defeat with an exaggerated sigh.

"What do you want me to say, Rachel? Did you come all the way here just to lecture me about Santana? And didn't you sleep with Finn that night? Quit pointing fingers."

"So it's true..." she whispers. Her eyes fall again.

I push out a quick breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. To think that five minutes ago I was thrilled to have her all to myself this weekend. My roommate is gone. Rachel's staying until Sunday. I was going to take her to a local place a few miles away that has excellent (or so I heard) vegan options on it's menu.

We've been doing so good. We talk every week whether its texts, phone calls, Skype, or emails. I was going to tell her about Santana eventually. I really was.

….I was just kind of hoping that we could explore this newfound infatuation with each other a little more, first. Now that she and Brody are officially over and there's no chance of a reconciliation with Finn, it's the perfect time for us to get to know each other a little better.

God damn it, Santana. She would blow it for me. Bitch.

"What do you want me to say?" I slump down into my desk chair. She hasn't even taken off her coat yet. She barely knocked before coming through my unlocked door and punching me in the gut with the inquires about my sexcapades with the Latina.

She sighs with exaggeration. "I don't know, Quinn. I just...why didn't you tell me?"

She walks further into the room and sits on my bed, finally slumping out of her coat.

"Rach, it was a one time thing," I try to reassure.

"That's funny. I heard it was two."

"Fucking a, Santana," I spit out and pound my fist into my desk. Rachel flinches at the sound and gasps. She dramatically grabs her chest over her heart. Her overreaction kind of makes me want to tickle her.

….I'm so weird.

"That's really an unnecessary reaction, Quinn. Santana didn't tell me anything. Kurt told me. He heard it from Blaine, who heard it from Tina."

I know my mouth is open but I'm incapable of closing it. The fuck is going on?

"And who told Tina?" I ask with a bite in my tone.

"Oh," she says quickly like she's just now remembering, "It was Marley."

"Who?"

"The 'new' Rachel," she rolls her eyes, "I hate that label by the way. There will never be a new me. I'm one of a kind, never to be repeated. I wrote a strongly worded email to Mr. Shue about it and he never responded. I find that to be incredibly rude, but unsurprising. That man has always been out to destroy me. And to think that he's building up that poor girl to think that she's better than she really is? She'll be crushed one day when she realizes that she's no match for my talent and ends up at a state school studying Psychology."

Her rant makes her lose focus and I'm still trying to figure out who the hell she's talking about. The only girl I remember is that one that Puck was dating. The blonde girl who has a weird obsession with me. Puppy or something.

"Who cares, Rachel," I pull her focus back, "how did this girl know we hooked up?"

She swallows at my comment and I realize what I said. 'We.'

"Santana and me," I clarify quietly.

"I know," she disputes, "She heard you two. Apparently she and Jake had the room next door and they weren't...well, they weren't doing what you were doing."

My eyes widen. If there was ever a time I felt the need to slap my own forehead, it would be now.

They _heard_ us.

Oh god.

I remember that night quite clearly. If they heard anything it wasn't _us_. It was _me_.

I want to die.

"Rach...I..." my face warms considerably and I can't meet her eyes, "I don't know what to say."

"Well..." she starts, "Why did you do it?"

"I-I'm not sure," I stutter. It's the truth, too. I really don't know why I slept with Santana. Sure, she's attractive. Yes, she was very good in bed. But why her? Why then? I don't know.

Rachel looks at her hands which are placed perfectly still in her lap. She wants to ask me something, but she's being shy.

"Rachel?" I barely whisper.

"Hm?" She keeps her eyes down.

"If you're going to yell at me, please just get it over with." I really can't bare the thought of her being mad at me. I just want her to rip my head off. I can apologize. She will forgive. We can move on. I had a Dawson's Creek Netflix marathon planned for us. Complete with popcorn and sweatpants.

"I'm not going to yell at you, Quinn," she still doesn't lift her eyes, "I just—I don't—" She huffs and picks her hands up before throwing them back down.

"Just say it, Rach."

"Are you gay, Quinn?" her eyes finally lift to meet mine. I'm holding my breath. I wasn't expecting _that_.

Nobody has ever asked me that before. I've barely asked myself that question. I mean...yeah, I slept with a girl but so what? Lots of girls experiment.

But...yeah. I've toyed with the notion of dating a girl. I could see myself taking a girl out on a date. Holding the door open. Telling her she looks gorgeous. Kissing her goodnight.

Every time I picture it though, I only see Rachel's face. How fucked up is that? I_ slept_ with Santana, and yet, when I think about buying flowers, making reservations, or being spontaneously romantic—it's all Rachel. The girl I used to torture. The one who stole my boyfriend. Who's biological mother adopted my daughter. There isn't enough therapy in the world to cure this fucked up realm that she and I have created.

And now, she wants to know if I'm gay. Am I? I don't know.

I do know that I'm not ready to hash this out with the potential object of my affections. Rachel's not a bigot, obviously, but she's probably not ready for a girl to be completely infatuated with her, either.

"Quinn?" she pushes when I'm silent.

Our eyes are still locked. She's the last person I want to hurt. I told myself over a year ago that I would never hurt her again. I can't break that promise to myself. And in Rachel Berry's fucked up, star-glittered world, omission is deceitful. Deceit is lying. Lying is hurting her.

I sigh heavily and look down at my own hands.

"Does it matter?" I whisper.

"What?"

"Does it matter? If I'm gay? I mean...does it change anything?" It's the only way I feel like I can convey to her that I don't want this conversation without flat out lying.

I hear shuffling and I know she's moved from the bed, but I can't bring myself to look up. What if she's leaving? What if it _does _matter?

Before I have a chance to dart after her, she's kneeling in front of me. She hooks her fingers under my chin and brings my eyes to meet her's again. I momentarily get lost in the deep brown and can't help but wonder how she can show so much compassion with just her eyes. It's mesmerizing.

"No, Quinn," she gives me a half-smile, "it doesn't matter."

"Why did you ask, then?" I say before I can stop myself. "I mean, about Santana. If it doesn't matter..." I quickly try to amend.

She shrugs. "Curiosity, mostly." She moves her hand from under my chin to cup the side of my face. "I guess a part of me wishes that you had chosen me."

If I hadn't been looking right at her, I wouldn't have heard it.

"Ch-chosen you?" I stumble.

"Yeah, uh," her eyes drop again, "instead of Santana, I guess. I just always kind of figured that if either or both of us wanted to experiment it would be with each other."

It was such a Rachel Berry thing to say. Conceited. Brash. Compassionate. Adorable. How she manages to be all those things at once is beyond me. I hope she never changes.

This time I reach out and lift her chin.

"I wish it _had_ been you," I admit.

"Quinn?"

"Hm?" I lean into the hand she still has on my face.

"Can I kiss you?"

I snap to attention. "What?"

"You just said!"

"I know what I said, Rachel!"

"Ugh. You're being unreasonable, Quinn Fabray. You just admitted that you want to sleep with me and now you're denying me a kiss? I think it's an obvious next step in our relationship given the recent revelations in your sex life and the undeniable pull we have betwe-"

I cut off her rant with my lips. I slide to the floor on my knees so I'm even with her. If Rachel Berry wants me to kiss her, I'm going to damn well kiss her right.

She wastes no time wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me close.

I tilt my head slightly to the right and open my mouth to slide our lips over each other.

She slides her tongue smoothly across my lower lip and I immediately allow her entry.

She moves her lips like a controlled melody. Her hands are the harmony as they slowly slide up and down my lower back in sync with the movement of her tongue against mine.

Oh my god. Rachel Berry even _kisses_ like a song.

And she's so, so good at it.

My stomach flips with excitement and I feel a rush flood my body. I slide my hand behind her neck and lace my fingers through her long hair. She smells like vanilla. She tastes like mint gum. She feels like a warm blanket that I want to wrap myself in.

I don't want to stop, but I need air.

I pull away with quick gasp and refill my lungs.

She does the same. Our eyes lock.

"That was-"

"Yeah."

"Again?"

"Yeah." She nods frantically before putting her hand on my neck and pulling my face back to hers.


End file.
